


hit the road and i'm gone

by koshiroganes



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, the baby driver au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 21:23:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14410839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koshiroganes/pseuds/koshiroganes
Summary: Keith was eight years old when his parents died in a collision with a semi-truck and thirteen when he stole his first car, drove it into the desert, and punched the gas pedal into the floor, flying across sand until the tires got sluggish and he lost control and careened straight into the side of a mountain.He might’ve died, if Lotor hadn’t found him. Lotor, the owner of a Jaguar F-Type which had three million dollars in stolen cash in the trunk and which happened to be on fire. When the car had stopped smoking long enough to pop the trunk, the money was gone, and with it Keith’s freedom.Keith is a getaway driver for a gang of bank robbers. He stumbles into Shiro's diner one day and forgets how to leave.





	hit the road and i'm gone

Chapter 1

The owner of the diner is staring at him.

It makes Keith’s skin crawl, being watched. He keeps his head down as he takes bites of his burger, but he lets his eyes dart up to the boxy little TV mounted in one corner of the shop, too far away to hear even if he didn’t have earbuds in, so he squints at the headlines scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

NO SUSPECTS IN YESTERDAY’S BANK ROBBERY, POLICE SAY

Keith forces his shoulders to drop. There’s no grainy image of his face caught on a traffic camera, no sketch drawn from the memory of a passerby who got a glimpse of his face just before he hit the gas pedal. As far as the occupants of this diner—and the whole city of Albuquerque—are concerned, Keith is just some guy in a diner.

But the owner of the diner is still staring at him.

Keith sneaks a glance at the man behind the counter, tall and muscled, the sleeve of his left arm rolled up to reveal a strong forearm and the other tied off just below his shoulder, where his right arm ends. The man catches his eye, and his mouth stretches into a smile that looks—bashful, or embarrassed, maybe. Because he was staring at Keith and got caught, and— _oh_.

Keith hits pause on his phone, the music blaring in his ears falling silent, and pulls his earbuds out. He swallows down the last of his burger and takes a swig of Coke, climbs out of the booth, swiping the check left on his table by his waiter as he goes. He tugs his wallet from his back pocket as he slides onto a barstool, just to the left of Muscles.

He can tell this guy is the owner just from his presence, the way he interacts with the other employees—friendly but commanding, like the diner is an extension of him, a liminal space he takes with him everywhere he goes.

Keith is getting weird now. He can’t help it—the guy is insanely hot and has spent the last twenty minutes unsubtly staring at him. He gets existential when he’s horny.

For the first time since he entered the diner, Keith looks at the man straight on. A shiny red name tag that reads “SHIRO” is pinned to his shirt, and a scar cuts across his nose that looked like a blush from far away—but up close his grin is easy and relaxed, not shy like Keith first thought. It makes him even more attractive, which by all rights should not be possible.

“Enjoy the food?” Shiro asks as Keith passes him the check to ring up.

“Yeah,” Keith says. “Lives up to the sign.” He nods at a sign over the counter that says “Best Burgers in Albuquerque!” Shiro laughs, scratches the back of his neck.

“According to _Albuquerque The Magazine_ , 2016,” he says. “My cook won’t let me take it down, it’s his pride and joy. Eight bucks even.”

Keith hands over a twenty and says, “Keep the change.”

Shiro cocks an eyebrow, and it may be the sexiest anyone has ever looked. “You’re giving me a twelve-dollar tip on a burger and fries?”

 _I’m a bank robber_ , Keith thinks. What he says instead is, “It was a good burger. I’m investing in future meals here.”

Shiro is looking at Keith like he doesn’t know what to make of him, which is understandable. Most people look at him that way, but with Shiro—there’s a something more. Like he wants to figure it out. Like it draws him in instead of pushing him away like everyone else.

“I’ll give your compliments to the chef,” Shiro says. The cash register pops open and he slips the bill in, snaps it closed. His eyes find Keith again. “What’s your name?”

“You ask all your customers that?”

“Only my regulars,” Shiro says, shrugging his undamaged shoulder. “And you just said you’re coming back.”

“Fair,” Keith says. “Keith.”

Shiro holds out his hand. “Shiro.” Keith grasps it, dry and callused and dwarfing his own hand. He swallows.

“See you around, Shiro,” he says and slides off the stool, exits the diner into the parched heat of New Mexico summer. He swings a leg over his bike and turns the key in the engine, and it roars to life, rumbling under him. He kicks the stand up and takes a last long look at the diner, because there are a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t come back here, why he can’t come back here.

So he won’t.

—

Keith was eight years old when his parents died in a collision with a semi-truck and thirteen when he stole his first car, drove it into the desert, and punched the gas pedal into the floor, flying across sand until the tires got sluggish and he lost control and careened straight into the side of a mountain.

He might’ve died, if Lotor hadn’t found him. Lotor, the owner of a Jaguar F-Type which had three million dollars in stolen cash in the trunk and which happened to be on fire. When the car had stopped smoking long enough to pop the trunk, the money was gone, and with it Keith’s freedom.

It’s been ten years, to the day, Keith thinks, hands tapping at the steering wheel to the beat of the music playing in his ears. Ten years, a job every few months, to keep it irregular. Maybe three a year. It’s routine now.

Nyma and Rolo are visible through the big glass window of the bank, masks covering their faces and guns cocked as Sendak loads cash from the vault into sacks. Keith keeps an eye on the rearview mirror, looking out for the lights of a police car, his heart rate picking up with every passing second.

His three companions spill out onto the bright street, guns high and heavy bags slung over their backs as they run across the street toward him. Keith knows the alarms are ringing out from the bank, but he can’t hear with his headphones in, and it’s better that way—the music steadies him. And he needs all the focus he can get.

He pops the trunk as they race across the street, and they shove the bags in, slam it closed, slide into the seats—and Keith is shooting forward before the doors are even shut, tires squealing on blacktop. Music thumps in his ears, and he spins around a corner as the beat drops and police sirens flash in the rearview mirror.

Here’s the reason Keith would give up sleep if he could to sit behind the wheel of a fast car every minute of every day: when the engine revs and the car rockets forward, when the gears shift under his hand on the clutch, everything is clear. His brain empties and instinct takes over, and the world narrows down to the road in front of him and the red and blue lights behind him.

He tears through red lights, whips around corners, slips into narrow alleyways and speeds down them faster than the cops would dare. There are enough of them to keep him guessing, to make his heart pound when he reaches an intersection—which way can he go, which direction leads to a spider’s nest and which to freedom—but in the end, he loses them.

He always does, eventually.

The music booms over the sound of the sirens, but Keith can tell when it’s faded into the distance by the whooping of his companions. He lets the map of the city in his head unfold, places himself like a GPS tracker, and turns toward their drop point.

—

Hours later, high on his success and pockets heavy, he drives through the desert as the sky turns violet and finds himself, again, at the diner.

**Author's Note:**

> someone take my internet access away
> 
> something something [tumblr](https://www.koshiroganes.tumblr.com/) something


End file.
